Dreams of An Ancient Mariner
by ArtificialLung
Summary: England has seen the world, has touched it all, but he has yet to quench the thirst which burns in his throat. Warning: ArthurxAlfred eventually
1. Chapter 1

[i]"You used to be...[/i]

Used to be many things.

Dry.

Dry witted.

He has still retained his bitter sense of ironic humor, but in England's house, what is dry when there is damp? He cannot remember a decade where he was truly without moisture lurking in at least one, vaguely saturated, discolored patch of his home. Drafts whip his draperies and molds cultivate on the inner supports of aged walls so that once in a great while, sections go down as others must rise. From time to time, he rebuilds. From rebuild to rebuild, he sometimes feels he only wastes time.

In the dining hall, just recently, a table, elegantly carved, crafted, and oh so beautifully old, must be replaced by another not quite as worn and to England, lacking just that last few centuries of experience to truly be considered 'vintage'.

Here, the sun may occasionally shine, but its light does not pervade _every _corner and England still murmurs about the leaks in his ceiling.

His bed linens are miraculously untouched until the night comes. Then, he doffs his shoes, a hat if he was so inclined to wear one, and takes up the mantle of sleep where the moisture has been kept out. Here, it is dry again. Between his sheets, he can rest without drowning in torrential rains of idiocy, the corrupt, the peculiarities and arguments swirling in that whorehouse of foreign affairs.

_Un_fair, perhaps, to consider it as such, but he has two bottles of something at his bedside table tonight he vaguely recalls are from France. Possibly confiscated, or a gift grudgingly accepted if only to keep the peace and nurture the distance. Beneficially, coveting another darling of a glass would muddle the thought further, any thoughts really; France's irritating face would ripple away- for the next eight or so odd hours of the night.

Unfair to himself to sport the results the morning after however, and honestly, he preferred his dignity in tact.

God help him- it was difficult.

He bore no considerable ill will toward any of the powers. And was the meetinghouse so much of a red light district or was it merely a parlor painted rosy hues simply for the fact that some few members –namely France- regularly made it a habit to disrupt and disturb?

England watches the night go down. He stares out at the expansive view beyond his window and watches, peeks through his lashes from beneath his lids and watches it still as it deepens. Above him, he can just barely catch the hazy twinkling of what might be fairy dust or sleeping sand spread about the room.

England sleeps in a damp house, swims in a Thames of Tradition and Propriety but as he drifts, his esophagus closes. It scratches, it squeezes.

It is so very dry.

---

[i]"I always thought you were..."[/i]

Right. If it is on certain matters - for example, the supernatural, England would argue- his country simply knows. Or they have the capacity to know. Like any rational human being, his brain contains innumerable creases and in these crevices, he holds and hides and covets so much. Thoughts have a taste to them. And taste, to Homo sapien, was so easy to recall.

History, to be honest, is the leaves flavoring his tea, because when he sips, he revels and he pontificates on the blend of time and memories. Some are old, some soothing, and some disgustingly bitter like America's coffee.

Coffee has a deceptive aroma, promising and enticing but it is the taste- disgusting stuff- that burns and perturbs.

England has tasted much of the world.

His tea swirls in the cup that clinks lightly, china on china saucer, when he puts it down.

"-So then I picked it up and I was reading this newspaper of yours, you know? And I was sitting down just like I am now, right? Looking through the sports section. I took a huge gulp of my drink, you know? And I totally forgot that you guys don't do the whole ice thing and I seriously ended up-"

England responds with something appropriate that sends America, predictably, into a hot blooded tirade of how - if ice was really necessary, and of course it was- the obvious action to remedy such a deficiency would be to borrow some from Russia.

"Or Alaska," Was America's enthused suggestion after the second clink of cup on saucer became the first clunk of cup on table. "Or somewhere else. The [i]point[/i] is-"

England's throat is hot, stuffy and aggravated. He looks at the newspaper smashed beneath America's palm and laments its unfortunate mishandling. Briefly. An article has snagged his focus for a good long while so that as his half-grudgingly chosen drinking companion rants with vigorous, jovial thumps on the table, England can sail blessedly undisturbed through it all.

Inflation plummeting. Recession. Rising and falling. It feels like his adam's apple moves with the tide of the printed word. [i]That's good.[/i] [i]That's bad[/i].

That's America exuberantly indicating one of _his_ making it into the Observer- for some purpose or another, England does not want to know. Or, rather, he already knows and he just does not want to [i]know[/i].

His teacup clatters something fierce against the table again and America miraculously ceases talking long enough to lift an inquiring brow and cock his thin-lipped mouth into some strange expression resembling concern.

How odd.

"You're not looking too well, England- you need to lie down or someth-?"

"No. No I do not."

America looks unconvinced. "Yeah. Okay. Suuure."

Gritting teeth against the overwhelming urge to hack, England merely picks up his drink again and finds it empty. The tea has not soothed his throat and the beer that America consumes [i]almost[/i] looks inviting. Fraternizing with America, for now, must prove distraction enough. "Honestly- do mind your own business. Now, what on earth were you trying to get at with this 'natural' energy nonsense? I believe we have already discussed this many times over."

"Ehh, that doesn't really matter. And anyway, I've already read this." America smacks the paper again, plants a hand on England's shoulder and says quite proudly. "Did you know that we totally kicked Germany's ass? Top generator of natural wind power in the [i]world[/i]. I'm telling you, Artie, we're not that far behind in solar either. Hell, if we can just manage to find a way to keep the sun up longer or- or build some sort of giant wind tunnel-!...Who knows? Nothing's impossible when it's for the sake of justice, right?"

"I have yet to see how this correlates with your previous topic of iceburgs."

America's blue eyes get hooded behind his spectacles. His brows crease with the weight of realization. "You haven't been listening to anything I've been saying, have you?"

"How can I? You change topics like you change your [i]clothing[/i]."

England politely picks up his empty cup and presses it against his lips, mildly hoping he might detect a lingering droplet on its rim. Conversely, the lager is persistently golden, foamed, and flowing down America's impressive gullet. He does, in fact, take a swig right in front of his matron- [i]patron[/i], that individual England had been in the long since past- then slams it down.

"Now look, I didn't come here to argue with you. I came because- well... you know, I do like to argue with you, but I don't like to [i]argue[/i]. We're just here for some time out, right? So why don't we toast to something and you can tell me all about...huh, that problem you've been having."

"Which [i]one?[/i]?" Is hissed, but America raises his mug regardless, raising his eyebrows too and just about everything else on his person. He's standing with one leg on the arm of the chair as though he has set claim to its borders. Strands of wild hair are straying from his head, swaying with his flight jacket in a breeze that does not, so far as England can feel, exist.

Theatrical twat.

"I, America, am pledging that in the name of truth and justice, I will attempt not to harass one Mr. Arthur Kirkland for as long as I have beer in my glass."

"How generous of you."

With a charming opalescent set of teeth, the fool sets to grinning and swipes the tart that has distinctly been set for the individual who is not [i]him[/i]. "I know." Drips berries and cream, but England disregards the impulse to wipe it away and sighs. He casts a dismissive glance at his empty cup and thinks about how similar it is to so many aspects of life.

It is not full, half full or half empty.

And really- America- that metaphor is ridiculous anyway.

*x posted to the LJ comm. But posted here to expand upon Hetalia's fic count. Spread the love everyone~.


	2. Alone

_"Yeah, well, at least I'm not always-"_

Alone? Hardly. England is a nation that has always been mobile. Expanding and contracting- like a mother giving birth. Conquests- impregnating western culture into countless nooks and crannies of the globe. An odd mode of thought, but not entirely far fetched. England has been a parent. He has reared children before. He has been brother and patriarch to many.

Not necessarily without conflict.

His home is still damp. He is cold now, because it is coming to be that season. Despite the pleasantries of an afternoon's victuals- the luke warm tea in one hand, the half bitten scone in the other, his throat is still aching and in fact, now it is raw. It burns if anything that touches the tender flesh inside bears a temperature either hot or cold. It must simply be- warm.

Thoughtfully, he stirs his tea a little as he provokes his memories in the same way, and listens distantly, with faint annoyance twitching his brows when he hears he has guests. America chatters enthusiastically with France and the latter has the audacity to make an incredibly crude comment while trespassing into England's home.

Prudish?

They are in the dining hall now. England purses his lips. He arranges his plate just so.

"Hey, hey Eyebrows- What the hell is this? This is a rock isn't it? Why is it on the table?"

He has faced centuries. Bared his teeth and cracked his muskets over heathen skulls. He has had allies turn with fangs in their mouths, bite at the yielding flesh of his wrists.

"That is a scone, France. And please refrain from breathing in my house- You'll sully the place."

They had felt and tasted like bile in the throat- acids eroding him from the inside out, and it continues to the very day. He drinks his tea as an antidote to the pain that rises and lingers still.

Sometimes, he drinks France's wine instead. Not today. France speaks adamantly of the bottles being a mistake and America ignorantly seems to think that he would like to join England for a nightcap later on. Both of them appear to be deluded about the fact that they are wanted.

"No." He states clearly around his cup, and while they bicker before him, he wonders as he briefly touches his neck.

America says his name once.

When he glances up, somewhat sharply, seeing that the boy- no, no, the man, of course- has reverted back to arguing playfully with the French bother, he delicately places the teacup back on his saucer. The scone, after a bite, as well.

The scratching in his throat does not go away, but something, if only for a moment, has soothed it.


	3. It's Been

_"It's been-"_

"-a while, hasn't it?"

"I believe I told you earlier that I had work to be done tonight, so why is it that you are still in my home, America?"

"Hm." He is lounging on an old floral printed sofa England dearly loves, his filthy boots just shy of contaminating the fabric. His legs are dangling over the edge, his body is draped over half of it and unfortunately, it reminds the man who watches of how tall, how fit and how young the country really is.

That twitch though, when America finally shrugs a response with a congenial grin, that minute movement of eyes which hold the sky, has that strangeness to it that relaxes England enough to let the lad's impudence go.

America remembers. And though America is young, he is not entirely naive. Not anymore.

Not since they showered, naked and exposed, in gunpowder and blood.

They had marched through hills of entrails. They had stared each other knees down in mud.

They are staring each other down now and England curls his fingers in his pockets to keep from touching.

His throat, naturally, which hurts. Speaking as he does, it's no surprise to hear the rasp there. Barely audible, but there it is, yes. Thankfully, he can manage with saying little but his usual turn of insults and America is predictably loud. Takes his brandy without question and England is grateful for at least that much.

"So you know... How long's it been? Couple decades or something? I mean, I come over for some fun every once and a while, right? Watch some tv, eat some- well, watch tv. Have a drink. Thing is though, it's been...huh, yeah, a good long while since I've actually slept in your house. You've gotta nice place when it's not so drafty."

Cool air is constantly swirling over them. America's bangs are rising and falling but he takes no notice to the futility of his commentary.

He scratches at the side of his neck suddenly and England starts, soon enough to catch his own hand, still it and compose himself with a blithe remark, "Kind of you, really. But I don't believe I ever invited you to stay."

"Hey- You've been collecting some of my stuff for a while and I know you've camped out over at my place before. We're exchanging all the goddamned time. So why not?" The boots are dangerously close to getting the fool kicked out. "I've got some business with Japan in a couple of days so I figured I'd just pay a visit-"

"And cut on travel expenses, I'm sure."

America's smile is lethal. England's frown has potential. "Pfft. Why wouldn't I?"

There are so many, many words

England merely sips his tea. Ignores his throat.

Ignores America's absurdly glittering teeth.


	4. So Long

_"There is no such thing as-"_

Ghosts, unicorns, fey and hags. England has kelpie, pookah, he has everything. There is an abundance of spiritual energy and entities thriving in his home, lurking among his people. He is magic. He is the land of ghosts, the stories of ghosts and the ghosts of stories.

Phantasms of sensation. Specters of culture. Generations decimated and assimilated. During the latest hours, when midnight has bloomed, in his ears are plaintive whispers. The softest murmurs in an eternal nocturnal song that follows him, lulls him, to sleep.

Sing him songs of regret, aches, and desires.

He is good and righteous, but he is not so pure as that.

England has had many lovers. As he lies drifting and asleep, he recollects and re-collects. His hands have sampled virgin flesh, he has fucked it raw, fucked it gently. And he has been fucked. Shamefully, but more often than not, with dignity and mutual consent. No nation has a specified sexuality and though there may be preferences, borders may be penetrated or willingly given, altered in creative ways. Cultural quirks regularly pass among them with the sweet caresses of fingertips and lips. A relationship may form, it may crumble or it may simply exist. The unspoken, nameless thing of nights.

His is not alone, he is not lonely.

America, one level down, slumbers on his couch. Where he has lain for three days too long. Whatever business he had with Japan had apparently gone unfinished, become complicated. Or, had been complicated. For an unknown, indecipherable, and likely stupid reason. It was not something anyone would put past the fool to sour a meeting.

England's lips are chapped. Tongue flicks out, moistens, lingers. Runs over cracks which taste faintly of metal.

Japan…

Japan is a wistful memory. There is the tempestuous Ireland, with whom he has danced for centuries. He feels the implication of the past on his skin, where islands have given him the hottest, most delightful and fleeting of kisses and damned... damned if he doesn't recall that one time with-

He won't go there. England turns over in his bed, adjusts his gown and rakes his fingers through his matted hair.

Nails have scratched bloody rivulets into his back.

The pull of it feels real again…

He has felt filled. He has filled. He has plundered with tongue and teeth. Been bitten as much as he bites. It is not something he would admit, would ever allow any of the men and women he works with to discover- those who were not already aware.

He remembers everything. But whatever he has touched, he is bitter for whatever he has not.

Some of them know that too.

One of them knows it too well.


	5. Since the Taste

_"You used to be-"_

Able to dream. Dream of bright, cheerful days on sun kissed soils. A tiny hand growing larger in his own.

The larger hand becoming larger still.

The sweet, childhood flesh of the hand becomes calloused and the calloused fingers, eventually, confidently, stroke his stress away.

He closes his eyes just as soon as he opens them with a violent upward lurch in his bed, jolted as though electricity surges and snaps at veins and nerves. England coughs, wheezing for an eternity even as he stumbles from the sanctity of his bed, dashes along the corridors and down the stairs. He spins, ricochets. He rockets, pinioning and pivoting out to the kitchen. His heart thunders in his ear, the roar of waves against the Dover cliffs. He can faintly hear the slapping of his slippers along wood. The rushing of water.

It does not satisfy. He is thirsty- he is dying.

"England?"

England is ashen faced; he recognizes the lack of blood in his head, and the spiraling of it to limbs that have no need. America calls his name again, planted firmly in the kitchen foyer, watching with a repeated performance of 'concern'. His spectacles- Texas- are slanted.

The floorboards tip, his knees- they waver and he stumbles, instinctively slaps away the hands that reach for him then, gracefully kneels on burnished wooden planks.

America stands before him. He is a giant- a towering spire of everything England has ever come to regret and despise and tolerate and adore and desire.

His head throbs after each crack of lancing, spiking pain. Lightning lights the air. He feels his hands sink deep into the recesses of the earth, clutching at it- oh mother, please- and his nose is clogged with the rotting stench of corpses. Fire, smoke and oakum. The filthiness of sweating, dirt caked flesh. Blood beneath his cuticles. Blood within his nostrils, fluids in his eyes, rushing from his body and everywhere but the dryness of his throat.

Gray skies pour tears from up high. The droplets cause his face to lift and for all the nightmares he has seen before, this sight makes him writhe in piercing, white agony.

America's cheeks are stained.

His beautiful lips open and England rages so that he cannot hear, cannot fucking take it in, what the lovely, lonely child has tried to tell him.

'Fuck.' Isn't it, but America is persistent in yelling the bloody word at his ear and abruptly, England realizes-

He is not on American soil. Not kneeling in the mud with gurgling wounds of despair. There is a floor beneath him. He sinks.

America's large, calloused hands are on his shoulders. He says the word again and England squarely punches him in the jaw so the fool will quiet.

What a surprise it is when he does.

"You-" Should probably apologize for it. Fingertips dig at the musculature of England's shoulders because, though America has recoiled, his head whiplashes back from the fierceness of another finely honed emotive smack, his grip is unrelenting. It will bruise- it will hurt, as it already does and a part of the anglo-saxon man is reveling that he could finally land the blows his stubborn heart and pride had never allowed.

"You stupid git!"

The hands are far too warm, the floorboards absurdly cold, so England valiantly fights for his valor, tearing at the contact. He wants it off. Now, right now. America has no right to touch him let alone look at him let alone breathe within the same hemisphere as England does and now, as close as they are, it is as though their breaths come in unison.

"What?" Because America is an idiot, clearly, his reaction time is slowed- he blinks owlishly at the struggles against him and, schools himself a ludicrous expression of shock. "Hey- Hey, what did I do, huh? I was just sleeping, alright? I didn't touch a damn thing. You just came flying down the stairs like you were running a fucking marathon and then you collapsed in your kitchen. Did you-?"

He leans closer. He smells of cigarettes, of leather and of pine. Cooking oil too, perhaps, but it is subverted, a suggestion.

"-See a ghost?"

England's upper lip curls in on itself in a silent snarl.

"No… okay. Alien? No. Do you guys have aliens out here? I can't remember if I've ever seen anything about crop circ- okay, that's also a no. Seriously, England are you… Shit- wait, are you having a heart attack?"

America operates like one of his ridiculous claw machines, forcing England to rise with him. The attempts for freedom, weakened and half-hearted, go ignored as he fumbles in his jacket with one hand, clearly on the search for a cell phone.

Several sharp, sucking breaths later, England's strength has returned and as soon as America triumphantly procures his sleek little baby from the depths, it clicks forlornly against the corner of the icebox where it lands.

England's hand is still raised when he thrusts the other around America's neck, yanks him in. It is not kind, but the youth is a bull and is so thick headed, it is probably the alacrity of the action that startles him, not the pain.

The fool has no idea how much his co-worker's throat hurts. He is so infuriatingly, deliciously ignorant.

"What… the hell?" America speaks regardless, rasping as he calmly endures the crushing of his esophagus. "What'd you do th…at for? I was going …to call-"

"I know."

"You…think you…know every-… thing. Always… have."

"I do."

"Ch…"

"Let it go, Yank."

America takes one step forward. He puts his hand on England's. He stands but some few scant millimeters abreast to his assailant. Gasps. "…No."

The hand on England's shoulder is still there, gripping.

England's throat constricts. There is blood in his eyes, making him blink. Rain. Mud. It swirls, falls as though over panes of glass and through its cascading, he sees the unchanging constant blue. Spectacles. Blond hair the color of Midwestern wheat fields.

"Let me go."

"No."

"Get out of my bloody house!"

"Can'tyou're…choking…"

"Fool!"

Weight falls and with a mighty force, shoves him back so hard that his hand unlatches and he tumbles into solid, unforgiving ledges. The line of his counter slams at his spine, arousing guttural, primal howls from his throat. He cannot think clearly- there is a youth whaling blows upon him as he too contributes. Beating one another bruised and broken in his kitchen at an ungodly placeholder upon the clock.

During the coarse of the storm, the landscape begins to change. America's fine cheek bones begin to develop vivid, livid bruises. Red streams flow from his nostrils, flaring from heat and anger. His hair becomes matted from musky sweat, his glasses are severely cracked and cracking, his jaw looks strange.

Liquids cover his pursed, moistened lips.

Sitting, as his tea does, to cool.

Finally, powerful fists landing in his gut, England has recognized his thirst. What memories that make his porous skin seem so dry.

Before tea time, a visit to the attic- unintentional memoirs of an unintentionally lost child.

Teenager.

War torn young man.

Lover.

England has poise, England has grace, so he does what he does best and when the next blow comes, he carefully maneuvers around it, yanks America down by his hair and drinks.

For the love of god, he sucks it all in and feels the air flowing through his lungs. The delicacy of a fine, aging wine smoothing down his throat until the moment he must allow America to part them and inhales with deep, torso shaking pants.

"…Who are you?"

"Don't be daft." The acerbic nature of this hits America straight in the heart.

He's looking at England as though the man has sprouted tentacles out of his ears. His mouth is red, sore, inflamed. "…You're not…sick or anything?"

"No."

"Possessed?"

"No."

"You haven't- we haven't done that in years. I thought you never wanted me to touch you again after that one incident with the-"

It may pain him later, but for now, in the house of eternal rains, England drinks. He slaps America's tongue with his own, takes the fool into his mouth and consumes as much as he desires. Biting, rolling, licking. Perverse, terribly lewd things in such high contrast to the memories of a smiling, sun-haloed little boy.

To be fair, they had tarnished that innocence long ago. Though only once. One time bent to America's 'will'. In decades of uncertainty where America sang the kingdom's words and the kingdom's songs, dressed in Arthur's clothes before he tore those threads away for a high ride in the clouds. After the fact, of course, that while he cheerfully continued worshiping Arthur's lyrical muses, he was similarly beating his own drums to war tunes sung in trenches dug deep within the borders of exotic lands. Distanced from his home, bleeding, killing, killed and praying.

England hears 'what the hell' murmured irritably at his lips, but he smashes that out of the opposition- this is, is his response. Your pride, your ignorance. Your selfish lackadaisical attitude and the profoundly naïve hope that the world, despite the problems you have wrought, will heal and mend itself anew.

If America understands the message in the brutal snap at his tender bottom lip, he gives no sign of it. What occurs is merely a snorting exhale of air through bloodied pinched nostrils and the cocky wanker's boisterous laughter in England's throat.

Without hesitance or remorse, he consumes that as well. Glass knocks lightly against his nose as he counts teeth. Texas has slid forward, the nuisance, and England briefly contemplates Mexico as he shoves America's mouth away. He licks his lips, expertly, deftly, closes his teeth over the northern Texan border and lifts it away when trembling, addled fingers rise to follow but let it go. They fall to tangle in England's hair, preluding the press of burning skin alined with his neck and America's forehead is there, emanating heat where England really rather wishes he wouldn't.

Then, he feels a bob in the fool's throat, a sonorous hum vibrate there into the mouth kissing at his jugular and dandy, if it isn't questions threatening to end his respite.

"I thought-"

Many things.

Many times, many plaintive keens and hoarse throated wails. America might think, but it is not with the history England does. "How considerate- don't."


	6. Of You

"_It never stops…"_

The shaking at the fault line where tectonic plates are moving, shifting, converging points together, always together and never apart. 'Why?' America's furrowed brows ask, 'why do you do this thing when everything you need you've always had?' he says with curling toes nestled inside filthy socks. He's throwing out so many questions- tonguing the shell of cartilage tucked under matted straw hair. Nibbling at the bone of England's jaw line while England listens to the hum of electricity in his old, molding walls and the delicacy of a storm descending from rage. America's curiosity does not begin to wither, it blooms incessantly against touches meant to kill it. Even when England has guided him from the kitchen, it is not so much a mutual stumble as it is a clumsy, conflicted dance.

This waltz they endure is endless.

Joined chest to chest, they are whispering words on one another, quickly, harshly, under clothing and over it, the things they remember-

Stamps, Charleston, Adams, Free Trade, blockades of paper, Trent, Ghent, baseball- no, cricket, no, football, no, rugby- Horse races, golfing, music. Albion who morned the loss of America's hero, far back in May in 1865 after the 67 congressional honors of England's men and the sick, disgusting schizophrenia that had taken America's stability. England's mind.

After that-

_Napoleanic-_

'We can never trust a People who have thus used us.' America spills out above a sharp white collarbone and England snaps on his shoulder nearly tight enough to draw blood.

That- that- is all he needs to eliminate the befuddled 'waitaminutes', the startled 'fuckhell's. A well placed, criminally smooth slide along the 'Florida' coast and though America is aggravatingly still trying to get answers, at least he is inquiring with his hands. He is gasping. He falls silent. Their spiraling waltz now goes to the cadence of the rain.

At last, against an ancient wooden support long ago built with calloused, muddied hands, England traverses America in peace- in the peace of mind he has craved. The thirst gripping the raw insides of his throat is given purchase on America's smooth flesh, ever more satisfying the quicker he slides cheap fabric over and away, steadying himself with the knowledge that his feet are on the ground and his palms are splayed over a pulsating heartbeat.

Mellifluously, England whispers 'God Save the Queen' over America's sternum.

He is returned with the willful marking of the 'Star Spangled Banner' on his neck. Tendrils of the tune leak into America's breathing as he bites and there can be no doubt the presence of vindictiveness in it.

With the lightest of motions, England passes blunt fingertips along mountainous musculature, dipping, rising, coasting along concaves and convexes until he can alight upon a point of hoarse, breathless pants- passes the ghost of a blunt nail over a nipple he fully intends to exploit.

According to America's hips, It's only ever about exploitation.

England plunges south, grabs and twists.

Once upon a time, hundreds of years ago, there had been a child. A globe of children, and from each nubile, exports, the promise of eternal wealth if it could be but nurtured into maturity. England had tapped the potential of many- his colonies, his family, numerous, insurmountable.

Desirable- every one of them. He had been and would always be a gentleman at heart- whatever the circumstance or countercultural phase might conversely suggest, and despite the urge to conquer much more than the idea of territory, he had never taken a child beyond what they could endure.

Until-

Canada, Hong Kong- dear lord, they had been close. Frightfully close, but not-

"America."

The youth grunts, fumbles at England's nightclothes as he ruts against a leg.

Still so very young when the petty squabbles had become fisticuffs and violent feuds- in the nights that England remembers so vividly when he visits New England's rocky shores. Those days America had lain fuming in a stopped up home in Boston, waiting for his continentals to free him. Waiting while England watched and had wondered, had almost acted on an argument and an adolescent's captured wrists-

What if I claimed it all?

The childish vitality has not changed. America twitches palms over spinal implications as he laughingly continues asking 'what's wrong?'.

For once, here, England will answer without hesitation. He crashes tongues, teeth and mouths together, and when he sucks, he tries to take it all. This is another drink to satisfy his craving, but it is also a message:

I still want you.

An impulse that had gripped him over two centuries past reawakened, it will take more to fulfill than the fling decades earlier that had left him with bitter sweetened sensations, he has recognized it and consented. Just this once, he will obey. America, though young, is no longer what the world would consider a 'child'. He is a man- born of war and fostered by manifest destiny. The sun sets at his shoulder, the moon shines at his brow and the red dust beneath his feet, he tramples upon as much as he covets.

All of this, England grasps at. They are connected again, America is kneeling beneath pressure at his shoulders, licking bloated lips as they part and the smaller of them straightens. Stares down at the embodiment of what is, what was, and what could have been.

He recalls giving toy soldiers-

The kinetic memory of fingers in silken hair that is refreshed because there they are, just like in the past, tangling and petting as, in the present, America swallows England to the hilt.

His breath comes harder than his body, in time, but he will not let it end there. Cajoles and calculated caresses span lifetimes against comely wallpaper and America starts as they begin tumbling into another number distastefully carpet bound. Distant thunder rolling, floorboards faintly creaking. Curtains rustling, the sounds of the world are muted under a long, blissful moan.

When a large hand courses along his ass, a turning point has been reached and it is now the time routines must change. With the force of a nation, his nation- his own power- the questing fool is knocked away and England mobilizes toward mastery anew. He surges over the American- America- in waves of hard, punishing bites, pummeling skin with teeth and hands and tongue alike. Adam's apple bobbing, English dies in the lad's throat before it can breach the air and England observes in fascination the utter speechlessness that comes of his associate's shock. Nimble fingers skim his ribs, seeking vainly, he realizes, for that which is no longer there. Clothing, all semblance of it, has gone somehow. Even America's ridiculous pants- the 'boxers' plastered with the flags of his people- are gone, scattered to the vast domain of England's drawing room.

Where they have gone, England does not care to know and America, beneath him, does not deign to discover. He moves his mouth again, in a pattern reminiscent as 'annoying', then, words release. An unintelligible stream when England's palm on his vital regions massages, eventually evolves into an unintelligible string with grammar.

"It doesn't feel real, does it? It's like a fuckin' nightmare."

It is unlike anything in their waking world. The cool balm he had forgotten to stow away after treating a burn from evening's dinner coats his fingers in the manner of golden honey. Sluggish dripping. Onto his stomach, his aching body, the sword- he inwardly laughs, pins America with the sensation of one finger, two, three- which is thrust into then sheathed, in the land of the brave.

In this house, he is a sailor on the stormiest of seas and on this vessel, he is captain to whom every man- one man- must answer.

It is the dream of an ancient mariner.

For all the ocean is of tears, and there is all the world to drink.


End file.
